


Anomaly

by Ayato



Category: Original Work
Genre: Adult Content, Anal, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Science Fiction, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-05 00:57:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayato/pseuds/Ayato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bringing a victim of identity theft in for questioning should have been simple, straightforward. If only Jordan could be so lucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting on the Archive... you'd think I'd never done this before. There's a pretty good chance you've never seen my work before, let me just start by saying that I tend to write smaller chapters for a majority of my works. It let's me write fast, allows you to read the snippets on breaks at work, between classes (university classes I mean) and those few spare moments we all try to find in our busy lives. I'm also Canadian and use the spelling I grew up with... some notice it, some don't. 
> 
> Anomaly is an original work which flitted through my head one day when I was upset and wanted to quit work. Sometimes they just come to me like that. It's set in the future, in a country where money doesn't exist, as you read you'll learn more about why it no longer exists. 
> 
> Edited: because I am silly and hit the wrong thing, making it look like the story was completed, when it was not. 
> 
> Read, Review and Enjoy!

Sitting at his desk, he regretted, again, agreeing to work the greed division to help them catch up on their extra workload while half their staff received training with the new chips. He preferred rape and murder to greed, at least with rape and murder he didn't have to deal with idiots and dementia patients. 

“Tell me again, why you thought it was alright to eat four rations of biscuits in one sitting while your children went hungry?” He said to the woman sitting across form him. 

She folded her arms and pouted, “I don't need to talk to you, I demand a lawyer.”

“There are no lawyers in the greed division, if I pass you on to the higher crimes court, press charges against you, then yes, you would need a lawyer but the mark against you would prevent you from accessing the privileged items, ever again,” he reminded her, pushing the report towards her, “on two separate occasions you ate four rations of biscuits.”

“They didn't want them,” she retorted.

He rubbed his face. In the rape division he could get physical, in the murder division he could simply replay the crime as seen by the victim's eyes. But a person had to be caught on vid before an officer could become physical and a victim had to be dead in order to access the cortical implants that each legal citizen received at birth to identify them at all functions. The cortical implants also recorded the previous ten minutes of everyone's lives, deleting itself and re-recording until the time of death, in case of murder. 

How he wished he had something as simple as a murder to deal with. 

“Your biscuit rations are being removed. You will report to a parole officer and in six months your rations may be reinstated if you have proven that you can resist the urge to-”

“Shut up, you're not even a real cop.”

“Officer of the law,” he said gently, reminding himself that rage was a very real problem and could lead to greater crimes. Though he was certain he wasn't filled with rage but instead sheer frustration, “would you prefer your matter go before the courts? Six months probation compared to the two years in an academy of greed, learning how to share with others and then the inability to access the privileged items, of which chocolate, coffee, silk and gold,” he motioned to her jewelry, “are on the list. Your belongings would be confiscated and once you leave the academy you would be placed in an internment camp where you would work off your crimes as hard labour. Now we always need hard labourers but the others are rapists, murderers and the sort.”

“Maybe I would prefer that,” her nose went up in the air.

“Very well, I'll write in here that they should send you to Mobius, I've sent a good deal of people to the camp, just tell them you're a friend of mine.”

“What do you mean you've sent a good deal of people to Mobius? That's high security. For some little old greed crime?”

He cleared his throat, “I typically work in the murder division, aiding in rape when they need help, it's not a place where anyone lasts long, so yes, I have sent a good deal of people to Mobius.”

“And you'd send me there?” 

“The judge in higher court today is a good friend of mine.”

“I'll take the probation!” she shouted, standing suddenly, “I admit it, I ate the biscuits and it was a crime of greed, I wasn't even hungry, it was stupid of me.”

He watched her for a very long moment, wondering what had turned around her behaviour so quickly. Finally he said, “very well, take your file and,” he opened the drawer of his desk, withdrawing a parole card from it and handed it to her, “this out this way, follow the arrows, to the parole desk, they'll assign you an officer of the law for your parole and you can recommence your involvement with society.”

His supervisor waited until the woman left before stepping up to the desk with an armful of files. Shifting her weight to one leg, Amy glowered at him. 

“Jordan, that was barely legal at best,” Amy grumbled, finger the top most file in the pile, “but I can't say much about it, I suppose, since we're so far behind.”

“I need to get out of here, get some air,” he rumbled back to Amy, “I wasn't made for this kind of work.”

“Just another week,” Amy paused, her fingers pausing halfway down the files, “over in Em and Ar,” meaning murder and rape divisions. Officers of the law tended to refer to their divisions by the first letter, “did you have to do any tracking of your suspects?”

“Tracking, chasing, jumping, tackling,” he murmured in response, “they don't come quietly and seem to think that if they can hop over a fence then I'll stop and get confused. I won't tackle one of your suspects, unless they make me. I don't tackle my suspects unless they make me, skins my knees and could mess up my pretty face.”

“Mm,” Amy didn't seem to notice anything he said as she pulled out a red file and set it on the edge of his desk, “Age twenty-three, five-nine maybe a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet. His account has been linked to three different greed crimes, pulling from vendors in his block for items like caviar and champagne. The buys have been allowed because he recently graduated with his doctorate. He lives alone, no family to speak of, ward of the state.”

“Ward of the state?” he asked, flipping open the file, “since when do wards of the state come to greed?”

“That's the thing, we don't get wards of the state. What we do get are people doing greed crimes with the identity of wards of the state because normal people think wards can get their hands on anything and no one will notice a few extra and highly guarded items. However when items like this come up, we jump the gun, so to speak. First time it comes up, it's an arrest,” Amy shifted her weight and glared at him, “bring him in, take him to one of the rooms.”

“The rooms go to high crimes court.”

“If a ward of the state is doing greed crimes, he's going to high court.” Amy snapped back at him. 

“Very well,” Jordan said, standing to take his jacket, “I'm guessing he's not responding to phone calls.”

“He has a history of being absent of his phone, landlady's pretty certain he's holed up in his apartment,” shifting the files, Amy sighed, “the trackers are all in training, Jordan, Gee's are different than Em's and Ar's, they don't run, they hide. The statute of limitations on greed crime is only a month.”

“I get that,” Jordan nodded, shrugging into his coat, “A month still allows your trackers to get back, but this gets me out of the office. If I can't get him in two hours, allowing for driving to and from, I'll be back and you can hand me another green file, agreed?”

“Agreed,” Amy said quietly. 

Jordan picked up the red file and slid it into the print sealed envelope. The envelope would prevent anyone and everyone but Jordan from opening the envelope, ensuring the file would be kept confidential. Entering the elevator, Jordan watched the doors slide closed and then hit the stop button. He leaned against the back wall and pulled the file back out of the envelope, flipping through it at his convenience. 

Made a ward of the state at ten, Simon had lost both his parents in the space station collision that had killed four thousand others and stalled the space colonization for over a decade. Simon had been one of the few survivors, he had been placed in a space suit by his mother and left adrift for six days, surviving off the intravenous systems built into the suits in case of just such a catastrophe. 

The suits, however, were meant for fully stable adults. The suits for children had been made more for show, the survival aspect of the child sized suits were meant to be used in tandem with an adult or with more than one adult. When Simon was retrieved, he was found by the beacon in his suit, nearly to the moon, further than anyone else had been thrown from the blast. He had been entirely unresponsive and taken to a ward home where they placed him in front of a television screen to at least keep him entertained. 

Someone noticed Simon responding to specific documentaries and began to play them for him. When Simon had come to, he recalled the science behind what he had watched and had gone back to school, picking it up quickly, making leaps and jumps that others found difficult. 

Simon was labelled with social withdrawal disorder, though the file wasn't specific as to how. 

“Why caviar and champagne?” Jordan muttered, “no history of greed, never even tasted the stuff.” he looked around the mirrored elevator, wondering. 

Amy had said that wards who appeared with a greed crime tended to have had their identities stolen and used by everyday people. That would explain why Simon had appeared with a greed crime, but not why those specific items. Caviar and champagne were strange, even for greed crimes. Jordan had only ever heard of tourists checking out those two items, especially in such a high quantity. 

A tourist stealing an identity of a ward and checking out the items would explain that oddity but stealing identities was not so simply and shopping in the area around the victim? That simply did not make sense. 

Jordan slid the file back into the envelope and sealed it. Annoyed, he wished, again, that he could carry his weapon while working the greed division. Unfortunately his regular supervisor thought that perhaps he would get trigger happy if he had to deal with too many idiots. Something felt wrong about the whole thing. 

Picking up his phone, he dialled Greg, his actual supervisor, and waited for the other man to pick up, “Hey, Greg.”

“Are you.. Are you in an elevator, Jordan?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Jordan responded, “why?”

“You aren't supposed to be in an elevator, Jordan, you're supposed to be working with the others,” Greg snapped at him. Jordan could hear the chair scraping backward, could tell that Greg was upset, “what are you doing in that elevator? No, you know what? I don't want to know. There are no Em's down there, Jordan, get back on your floor. Now.”

“Not a murder, Greg, I'm just a little perplexed, wanted to run something by you.”

There was suspicious silence on the other end of the phone, “about what?”

“You used to supervise the Gee's, right?” Jordan waited for the grunt of response, “I've got this ward who has supposedly taken out champagne and caviar at multiple locations right around him.”

Greg was silent for a long time before he said, “where are you headed, Jordan?”

“Downtown, an apartment complex that really shouldn't be standing still. Ward doesn't answer his phones.”

“I've got Mathew and Jane down there, I'll swing them by the building just in case. I've seen this in one other case and it did not end well. It was a trap for the Gee's and a suicide bomber.”

“Then why am I headed down there?”

“Because the world's at peace right now, we aren't fighting with anyone else. Also, no one who was working a Gee case at the moment would remember, they're all at training. Even the supervisor's filling in from the hack. I'll alert the necessary authorities but until they can get there, Mathew and Jane will have to do. You need to go like you're just following a case or the mess could be worse, our suspects could get away.”

“Okay,” Jordan jabbed the start button on the elevator, “one other question, Greg. What's a red file mean?”

“You're holding a red file right now?”

“Yes, why?”

“Red files go to top trackers, it means a ward of the state who means something to someone. Could be a girlfriend, could be a bastard kid or it could be someone who is top in their field, they have worth. Someone like you shouldn't be handling this, the supervisor, however has only been working there three days longer than you and probably thinks someone in filing just ran out of green folders. Greed orders more green folders than they do toilet paper.”

“Why not manila then, like everyone else?”

“It rolls back to the hay-day of money, before the blackout. Money was green, so greed is green. I also always thought it was because it's such a cheery colour, you need something bright in your life when you're working with bottom sucking scum every day. I'd rather a murder, it's so straight forward, murder, but greed? Greed's like asking your children who broke the vase in the living room. It's petty crime, nearly impossible to track down most of the time.”

The elevator doors snapped open and several people stood there, glaring at Jordan as he stepped off. 

“What's this mean for me personally in this instance?” Jordan asked Greg. 

“Get the ward out if possible, stay alive and try not to throw anyone out of any buildings.”

“It was one time,” Jordan protested. 

“One time and six people,” Greg countered. 

“In my defense, the building was on fire.”

“Which you started.”

“I saw a spider.”


	2. Pick Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the set up of the site but obviously I liked the hole I was in. Which I only bring up because Simon bashed me over the head with it, the hole bit, just moments ago. I don't think I've ever not introduced both main characters in the first chapter before and Simon is one of the strangest humans I've ever written. He's all over the place. Or maybe that's just to me... 
> 
> Read, Review and Enjoy!

Jordan knocked on the door and watched as it moved inward, not even latched properly. He looked at the landlady who held out her bat to him, offering, a bemused look on her face. Right, like an officer of the law was allowed to use anything besides a tazer gun unless they had their clearance fourteen ticket, which he did. Jordan made a motion for her to stay, having already explained to her what to do if something went wrong. 

Mathew and Jane were by an unmarked vehicle down in front of the building, a map out on the hood as they spoke in foreign accents and acted confused. A few locals had already stopped to ask where they were from. 

Partners on crimes divisions that were undercover tended to be man and woman, it gave the perfect cover, lovers, tourists, newlyweds. All trained to put on different foreign accents, all very knowledgeable in other countries. It allowed for them to run surveillance nearly anywhere, whenever they were needed and the divisions weren't kept within borders. Em's and Ar's had no problem helping the Gee's, even enjoyed it. 

Working together promoted equality and could earn rewards. For working two weeks for the Gee division, each Em was earning three days in another country. Jordan's three days were on top of another ten he had already earned, that he was saving up to take a special someone on a week vacation, him and them and a tropical beach somewhere. Getting out of the country for vacations wasn't exactly easy, what with the rest of the world running on cash, credits or hour exchange. 

Three days in another country, Jordan told himself as he stepped into the apartment unarmed. 

The place was a place. There were pictures on the walls, magazines on the table, dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. Jordan slid through the house and found Simon in the bedroom, standing at the computer, clacking away at keys. It was an old school computer, a hundred years old, surely. Refurbished, obviously, but it wouldn't have been connected to the internet, its processors were far too old to register the fact that the internet existed. 

“Simon Ward?” Jordan asked. 

Simon stiffened, turned his head towards Jordan slightly. The picture in the file did not quite catch Simon's spirit. The nostril's flared, eyebrows drew down in an angry frown. Shifting just slightly, two buttons were hit as Simon turned away from the computer. 

“Simon Moore,” he countered, “I was released three years ago from the government. You're from the greed division.”

Jordan looked down at himself, then back up at Simon, “how did you know?”

“The red file,” Simon pointed, “You're pulling me in?”

“Yes, please, we tried calling, but you didn't answer your phone,” Jordan said, looking around for the little block of plastic that would be Simon's phone. 

“I threw it out the window, it was bothering me,” Simon growled, “let me just save this and shut it down.”

Jordan waited, uncomfortable, as Simon turned back to the computer and saved. After a long moment the young man shut the computer and snapped a drive out of the side, placing it on a shelf, in a box, on the top shelf. 

“Every ward is required to carry a phone at all times and to answer the call when a government office phones,” Jordan reminded Simon. 

“I could always burn the place down and claim I saw a spider,” Simon responded, clasping his hands in front of him, “I thought I recognized you.”

“That was four years ago,” Jordan said quietly. 

Simon's head cocked to the side, his blue eyes closed, then sprang open again, “you would be correct. How's your father, did he survive the medical treatment?”

“Wh-how do you know that? Are you a beta-chip?” Jordan asked. The file hadn't said anything about Simon having a chip. 

“I've had upgrades to my cortical chip,” Simon responded, “but that was all memory. I retain what I see and when I saw your building incident I looked you up.”

The beta-chips were being given to adults, giving them the ability to use their heads as computers. Upgrades to the cortical chip could be used to play vids and record things, sending the images off to a cloud server in order to be viewed at a later date. They were having great success with cortical upgrades and older folk whose memories were starting to go. 

“I have a problem with spiders,” Jordan said. 

“Sure you do,” Simon responded, picking a jacket up off the floor, “let's get this over with. You're eating into my work time and I don't appreciate that.”

“Oh, you have a job?” Jordan asked, walking back towards the front of the apartment, “where do you work?”

“I don't, I just finished school,” Simon responded, “I'm looking into going back for astrophysics but they want something solid before they let me go back. The sooner I get it done, the sooner I can go back to school. As if my thesis wasn't good enough, they want the math for it but I told them I need the astrophysics courses to complete the math and they just won't give it to me so I had to actually connect to the internet and try to teach myself, can you believe that, in this day and age? Having to take online classes like some illegal and some of their math is even flawed. Flawed! I had to do the math myself, anyone with a basic brain would be able to figure out that the extrapolation of planes doesn't intersect through the time space continuum.”

“I don't know physics, but I think you're playing me for the fool,” Jordan muttered, stepping out of the apartment. 

The landlady looked at him and turned on her heel, marching off down the hall. Simon stepped out and closed the door, testing the knob before he set off down the hall, towards the elevator. Jordan followed Simon, waiting for an answer, one never came. An awkward ride down the elevator and out of the apartment building where they came to a stop on the sidewalk. 

Jordan surveyed the area, Mathew and Jane were still there, across the street, though they were receiving directions from a small group of locals who were pointing and explaining slowly how to get to the imaginary destination the two were looking for. 

“Your folk?” Simon asked, looking further down the street. 

Black car, men dressed in suits. Not any governing body that Jordan knew about. Moving to his car, Jordan unlocked it and opened the driver's side door. 

“Get in, Simon, get in now,” Jordan said calmly. 

Simon moved to the car and slid into the passenger seat. Looking over the inside of the vehicle, he frowned, “where did you get this from? It's a high end privilege to own a car like this, it's practically irreplaceable. The parts alone must have cost a fortune, when there was money.”

“My step-dad owns a car yard,” Jordan murmured, placing the key in the ignition, “he loans me and my brothers the cars he gets through his yard, we drive them to see if there are any problems, return them and get another vehicle. The issued cars aren't bad but this makes it easier for me to get around, no one thinks this car belongs to an officer of the law. Means I don't get vandalized by the parties or by anyone going to higher court for a petty crime.”

“Issued cars for what governing body are black?” Simon asked Jordan. 

Pulling out of the parking spot, Jordan looked in the rear view mirror at the black car, “you're a ward, you should know.”

“I don't know of one, black's so old school.”

“Then there probably isn't one,” Jordan sighed out, “I'm going to get you down there and we are going to get you someplace safe. Do you have anything on you that you haven't had for quite some time?”

“Nothing, everything was issued to me three years ago when I left,” Simon said, hand drifting up to his ear.

“Where'd you get the earring?” Jordan asked, “that's new, you're playing with it, means it's still healing.”

“It was my mother's,” Simon responded, playing with the ear for a moment longer before his hand dropped into his lap, “going up there, she could only take one thing with her, couldn't even take both earrings, just the one. I kept misplacing it, more and more recently, so I decided to wear it, can't lose something if it's in my ear.”

Pulling to a stop at a light, Jordan tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, not liking the awkward silence that followed, “what did your parents do on the space station?”

“My father was an astrophysicist and my mother an engineer, they met when he accidentally blew a hole in the hull trying to synthesis some sort of gravity field,” Simon murmured. 

“Were you born in space?”

“Yes, it's perfectly safe. The stations were gravity enforced, not quite to Earth standard but pretty close. I spent my childhood years running drills in case the space stations collided. Who knew those drills would actually come in handy?” Simon sounded distant, “I was sick when it happened. Mother took me to work with her, put me in the suit to keep me safe, so I could sleep and recover for the next day of school. They told me after that she sacrificed herself to get me into that suit but...” Simon went quiet, “I was already in it otherwise I would have died. The other station slammed into the upper portion of ours, the resulting gravitational pull, bits flying around, ripped open the docking bay my mother and I were in. She was sucked into space. I was sleeping and by the time I realized what was going on, she was gone and I was adrift.” 

Jordan decided he'd prefer awkward silence. Pulling away from the stop light, he looked around him for anything suspicious and then kept driving. 

“You never answered about your father,” Simon said finally. 

“He passed away,” Jordan responded, “my mother re-married a couple months later but Joe's a good guy. I like him, he treats her right.”

“There's a drug in clinical trials that could save others like him,” Simon muttered, “but it's in control of a foreign doctor who's probably going to sell it to the highest bidder rather than making it available to everyone who needs it.”

“Other countries are slowly coming around to our way of things,” Jordan said calmly, used to people sneering about the rest of the world, “but you have to remember, when money was king, people used to say the same thing about other countries. That money was the way to go.”

“All their credits and money are electronic, another world-wide blackout and they have no monetary anything and they'd have to come about to our way of things,” Simon pointed out, “or just die. They could all die as well.”

“I think I'm starting to see why you're labelled with social withdrawal disorder.”

“I don't do well with stupid people or blind people.”

“Actual blind people or just set in their ways, blind people?” Jordan asked. 

“People set in their ways. I've never met an actual blind person. Do they still exist? The cortical implants allow everyone to see,” Simon muttered, “I've never met an illegal or a tourist either, so there's that. My academy had an international student but he became legal after a semester and had an implant done. Beta-chip, it was pretty freaking awesome. He doesn't need a computer to access the internet or make a phone call.”

“Beta-chips aren't exactly stable, hence why they are beta-chips.”

“He took well to it, had a see-eye-person to help him through the twirks and problems,” Simon said quickly.

“Twirks?”

“You know, when they go all,” Simon spasmed in his seat, “it's not a seizure, which makes it hilarious to watch.”

“Twitching is never funny, some with the beta-chips actually died in the trial runs,” Jordan pointed out. 

“I think it's hilarious and I don't find much funny,” Simon said, “people are always telling jokes and I'm never getting any of them. Like what's brown and sticky?”

Jordan thought about it, shaking his head, “I don't know, what?”

“A stick.”

That earned a snort from Jordan, “that's not really funny, so much as it's pathetic. But everyone finds different things funny, it's just not nice to find the pain of others to be funny.”

“He wasn't in pain, he once told me it's like being attacked by a tickle monster all over,” Simon explained, “which means the other betas died of tickle. Probably the only cases in all of human history to die of something so mundane. You don't have to be such a politically correct pansy.”

“Politically correct pansy?” Jordan sputtered out. 

“My handler says I'm abrasive.” Simon said suddenly. 

“I wonder why.”

“Because I think people are politically correct pansies for not finding it funny when betas twirk out and if you try to touch me, I'll bite you. She and I have this discussion often. I didn't have friends growing up,” Simon explained, “she thinks that's why I never learned how to function like a normal person.”

“Not even on the station?”

“No,” Simon said quietly, “I was bullied a lot. The other children were average, their parents were janitors and security guards, my parents were scientists and taught me all about their jobs. The difference in intelligence level is completely nurturing but try explaining that to children. Lessons teach us all equally but the difference in education is always what happens at home.”

“If your father taught you astrophysics-”

“Why do I need to take the classes?” Simon asked, “because there are missing links in what he taught me, I know the upper stuff but I need the lower stuff to figure out how to make the connections I need to make.”

“And if your mother taught you engineering why-”

“Am I using a computer that's over a hundred years old?” Simon asked with a grin, “wouldn't you like to know?”


	3. Interrogation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simon tends to focus on him. A lot. I'm kind of surprised he even noticed Greg was in the room! 
> 
> Edited: because at some point I confused a name. 
> 
> Read, Review and Enjoy.

“Where'd you get the earring?” Greg asked, grey eyes focusing on the little titanium bauble in Simon's ear, “looks like one my daughter got for graduating engineering top of her class.”

“I inherited it from my mother, who was an engineer,” Simon responded, his hands folded and on the table, the young man's eyes flitted around the room, “are there cameras in here? Is this room even secure?”

“No cameras, we realize that cameras can be hacked,” Jordan said to Simon, “the room is secure. Have you ever been to the eighth street market?”

“No, never.”

“The sixteenth street market?” Jordan asked. 

“No,” Simon shook his head, “those are high end markets, why would I be there? The only high end I visit is the fourth avenue one and that was to check out a ram chip for my computer. Besides that I visit fourth avenue's lower market for all my check out needs, as per the suggestion of my handler. It makes it more difficult for my identity to be used at other markets as it pops up in the system as abnormal. The clerks should have seen that in the system and turned down the identity.”

“Anytime a ward's identity comes to up as a greed crime, they have to be pulled in,” Greg said to Simon.

“Except you're from murder, not greed,” Simon said to Greg, motioning to the tazer gun at Greg's side, “I haven't murdered anyone, did a person use my identity to check out an item used in a murder?”

“No, most people don't think far enough ahead to steal an identity for that,” Greg responded, frowning just slightly, “I'm here because your identity was used to check out champagne and caviar from three different markets. Highly suspicious because normal citizens don't check those items out, can't be bothered most of the time. Tourists do but a tourist doesn't need your identity to get a hold of high end items.”

“What are you suggesting, exactly?” Simon asked Greg, sitting forward. 

“That there may be something deeper going on. Do you have any idea why someone might be targeting you?” Greg countered. 

“Do you know why you have a red file?” Jordan asked as Simon glared at Greg. 

Brown eyes slid slowly to Jordan, “I'm a theoretical physicist, I work purely with theory, I'm not even the one who tests my research. I can't do that until I can co-work a piece I was sent a few months ago but the science behind it is flawed and I don't need research to tell me that. I filed a protest, saying as much and explaining in the plainest terms possible.”

“Since when do theoretical physicists get a red file?” Greg asked. 

“A theoretical physicist with a background in engineering and astrophysics,” Jordan corrected, “there are plenty of smart people in the world, I'm sure there's someone smarter than you are.”

“Because I'm the last survivor. Possibly because of what I thought I saw while I was adrift, I don't know for certain,” Simon said with another shrug. 

“There were tens of thousands of survivors,” Jordan said, “only four thousand died.”

“Died in the initial crash. Another two thousand died as the atmosphere was sucked out of their quarters, it was a slow death and they were saved in time but their bodies were deprived of necessary nutrients, they were too fragile to bring back to Earth, when their bodies were returned to their families it was simply said they died of shock on re-entry,” Simon explained, “this is all public record, I should add, anyone can see it. But most ignore it. Of the eighteen thousand that remained over half took ill from re-entry, their immune systems compromised from years of living in space. They contracted what most call space sickness. 

“In reality space sickness is like saying someone has post-traumatic stress disorder, it's an umbrella term. What you really die of is multiple infections and your immunity is too weak to respond or simply too slow to recognize the bacteria invading you. I was quarantined for six months, slowly introduced to Earth atmosphere, but then I was found three days after the last survivor and they knew better by then. 

“Of those who were left, they died of various ways. The next highest percentage of deaths was caused by suicide, then complications due to injuries and on down the list,” Simon finally stopped to draw in a breath, “the second to last survivor died fourteen days ago, drowned in his apartment's pool. As you know the government is reopening the colonization of space to the public and want a face there to represent those who died.”

“What's that got to do with this?” Greg asked. 

“You asked why I had a red file,” Simon responded, playing with the earring, twisting it in the earlobe, “as to why my identity was stolen and someone checked out expensive items from markets within my domestic area, the area in which a person is likely to wander in the given course of their lives, I can offer no possible solution unless the deaths of the other survivors were not accidental.”

“Your research isn't worth this much?”

“I may be writing a bit of research but as I said, I am purely theoretical. The reason I can't go into the astrophysics courses is that I've yet to produce anything meaningful for the world. Therefore, it can't be that.”

“Why would someone want harm on the survivors of the collision?” Greg asked. 

“Because of what we saw,” Simon said to Greg, “we all gave the same account, again, public record. I'm told it was the trauma of being ripped into space, we all received counselling for it. There was an anomaly in space. From what I know of my father's research and the learning I've had to do online, such an anomaly is possible but highly improbable. It's one of the reasons I went to the field I went to, it's why I want to take those extra courses. I need to know if there's something wrong with me or if I actually saw what I thought I saw.” 

Greg's phone, set on the table beside Jordan's, went off, vibrating about. They set their phones on the table, and on vibrate, to show good faith to the person they were questioning. Neither of them would be able to 'fake' a phone call if the phones were on the table. Whereas if the phones were in their pockets, it would be much easier for one to pretend to take a call and leave the room, allowing the other one privacy with the perp. 

“What?” Greg picked up his phone and frowned at the caller id, then sighed and opened it, “Greg. Speak. Say again? Where?” Greg was out of his seat and headed toward the door as Jordan's phone went off. 

Jordan frowned at Greg, then at his phone. Both of them receiving calls was a very bad thing. He picked up the call. 

“Hello?”

“All units report to Tee,” treason, “officers down.”

“How many?” Jordan asked.

“Two, Mathew and Jane,” came the soothing voice of the automated dispatcher, “all officers are to report to Tee immediately.”

“Thank you,” Jordan ended the call and set the phone back on the table, looking up to Greg, who stood with a hand on the door, “what to do?”

“Tee's serious, they must have their cortical implants downloaded already,” Greg said quietly, “I'm going to go up, you follow in ten minutes.”

“Leave him here?” Jordan asked, motioning to Simon. 

“No, bring him. And Jordan? Take the steps like a normal person,” Greg snapped before he left the room, slamming the door behind him. 

Jordan sat in quiet, watching Simon watch him. 

“Am I in danger?” Simon asked.

“No, Greg's clearing the floor up to Tee before we go because if any Em's find out Mathew and Jane were outside your place, they'll come looking for you. We're protective of our own,” Jordan explained, “once the floor is cleared, we'll head up. Others will be told it's a drill and asked to leave the building or will be locked in. You're coming with me because you're a red file and because it involves you.”

“How does it involve me?” Simon snapped, “I didn't do anything! This is really cutting into my work time.”

“Mathew and Jane were outside your apartment building running surveillance because we were afraid someone was coming after you,” Jordan said as calmly as he could, “they were reported as down, meaning they are dead, murdered like as not, by whomever set you up.”

“The man and the woman with the map,” Simon said, “what about the men in the black car?”

Jordan shrugged, “black sticks out like a sore thumb, it's a banned colour besides dignitaries of other countries. Neither of us knows of a governing body that uses black and it's not a colour you can get in the country. Leaves either someone very stupid or someone using them as a distraction.”

“I should notify my handler of where I am,” Simon said quickly, “she'll see it on the news or the landlady will report it and she'll think I've gotten myself into trouble because I was bored.”

“Do you do that often?” Jordan asked. 

“Never, but she has teenaged boys and they have.”

“Well, we have a few more minutes before we can go,” Jordan muttered, “what would you like to talk about?”

Simon looked at Jordan and frowned, then sighed, “how about why you really lit that building on fire?”

“I saw a spider,” Jordan asserted, “I'm really squeamish about spiders.”

“You deal with criminals on a daily basis but you're afraid of little specks that you could kill with a swat of your hand?” Simon asked incredulously. 

“Yes, and to be completely honest I walked into a web and there were baby spiders all over me, I panicked and ran into the perp, who happened to be smoking at the time and his pipe hit a pile of highly flammable something and it doesn't much matter after that what happened. Suffice to say the building went up and I ended up throwing six people out of it,” Jordan said, “I saved them, technically that makes me a hero, not an impulsive person.”

The young man chewed his bottom lip momentarily, “is that why they placed you in greed?”

“No, I'm only here while the greed division upgrades their training for the new chips,” Jordan said, “apparently the chips will allow for them to do their jobs easier. Which is great news because working here for a week, I really want to leave. Or really want my gun. Either option is a good one.”

“That sounds,” Simon trailed off.

“Violent, but at least I want to electrocute someone and not shoot them, like used to happen in the old days,” Jordan responded. 

“Have you ever come across a gun in your work as an officer of the law?” Simon asked, his full attention on Jordan suddenly. 

It wasn't until that moment that Jordan realized Simon's attention had even been split. Yet the full intensity, having Simon stare at him like that, made Jordan uneasy. 

“Yes, I've even been shot before. We are all trained how to disarm an armed perp as well as how to handle a gun wound, either on ourselves or another person. Why do you ask?” Jordan responded with a frown. 

Simon's head shook violently, “no reason, just curious. There doesn't have to be a reason behind every question, does there?”

“Typically there is a reason, yes,” Jordan said, standing. He slid the phone into his pocket, “You only ever ask about my past and ever talk about the collision. Is that normal for you?”

“No, normally I don't talk this much,” Simon said quietly, “suppose I'm just shaken, being brought in here and all, by you of all people. The only officer of the law whose name I know. It's strange.”

“It's coincidence.”

“I'm not so certain,” Simon responded, standing.

“Ah, you believe in fate?” Jordan asked, walking around the table.

“No, I don't believe in God either,” Simon said slowly, sounding unsteady. 

“Then why do you find it strange that I was the one to pick you up on a greed charge?” Jordan asked. 

“Uh,” Simon looked for a moment like he was going to respond, but then shook his head, “nothing, it's complicated and far too boring to explain. I'm sure you have other things to do with your time, just as I have something else that I should be doing right now.”

Jordan frowned, “you mean your work.”

“Exactly. It is very important, my work. Very important, only to me of course, I need to complete it to get into the courses I want in order to solve the problem of the anomaly, that whole answering life's big questions bit,” Simon nodded, “it would also prove my father's research. His life work, I'm sure if he had had even a few more hours, he would have found the answer he was looking for. But he didn't...” again, Simon looked like he was going to say something but instead trailed off into grief. 

“So you're going to finish his work for him?” Jordan asked Simon. 

“Yes,” Simon smiled weakly at Jordan, “finish my father's work, what he couldn't finish because he was interrupted so suddenly.”

“By a space station crashing into his,” Jordan pointed out, “no one could have predicted that the guidance systems would have failed so terribly.”

“They didn't fail,” Simon said with a frown, “why would you think they had failed?”

“How else do two space stations with so many plaz-windows crash into one another?” Jordan asked, “they should have seen each other from nearly a hundred miles away.”

“Yes, that's true, but it's also the real question isn't it? How could two fully functioning space stations collide when there was no treason involved?” Simon murmured. 

“It's not possible.”

“More like highly improbably. It's been ten minutes exactly, should we not be on our way?” Simon asked Jordan.


	4. Drive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way this chapter ended led straight into the next chapter and it worked well for me. You, however, will have to wait a while to read the next bit as I am moving very far away and it's almost a week to get there and we aren't even certain there will be internet. At least... not to start. So be patient, I'm not ignoring the story, it's just that I don't have the invisible magic that lets me share with others. 
> 
> Read, Review and Enjoy!

“As you can see, Jordan, who is that?” the tee stopped, clicking a button to shut down the slide show, “civilians are not welcome to this, Jordan.”

“I apologize, but this is Simon Moore,” Jordan said, motioning from Simon then to the room, “He's a red filed greed and last I saw Mathew and Jane, it was outside of his apartment building. I was concerned that he might be involved, and so I brought him along with me, rather than send him home and to who knows what.”

“Known party members are involved,” was the calm response, “they've chosen black as their colour because that was the colour of the government before the black out. They are in custody but in questioning as we speak and I was debriefing everyone here on the new manifesto we have found. If you would please escort Simon home, upon your return to the station we will include you in the second wave of debriefing.”

“Of course,” Jordan responded, motioning for Simon to come back towards him. 

Simon cocked his head to the side and huffed out a breath, as if he were disappointed that not everything was about him. Slowly, Simon turned towards Jordan and followed him back out of the debriefing room, to the elevator. 

“He said avoid the elevator,” Simon pointed out to Jordan. 

“He was being a smart alec,” Jordan responded, jabbing the down button on the elevator. 

“Eh,” Simon squinted at the elevator and walked off suddenly, towards the stairs, “I'd rather the stairs. It's a lot harder to kill a person on stairs. Also, it's a nice workout for the legs and the back and all that, rather than encouraging laying about and the like.”

“But the elevator is quicker,” Jordan said as the doors dinged open. 

Simon was already in the stairwell, forcing Jordan to follow him. The young man was waiting just off the landing, glaring at Jordan as he walked into the stairwell. Folding his arms, Simon leaned against the rail and tried deepen the glare. 

“Taking the stairs will lead to a better, fuller life,” Simon said as Jordan walked past him, down the steps. 

Jordan ignored Simon and kept going. Down and down and down and down. They were on the tenth floor, for crying out loud and they still couldn't take the elevator? On the ground floor Jordan stepped into the lobby and turned back to give Simon a bit of his own medicine.

“You took an elevator up,” Jordan countered, annoyed that Simon would arbitrarily decide what he was and was not doing. 

“So spank me,” Simon responded, “I didn't realise I had a choice.”

Jordan squeaked out because he swore Simon was being serious, very serious, when he said, 'so spank me.' For a fleeting moment he had that image stuck in his head and it was not wanting to go away, even as Simon's full attention swung to Jordan. Yet again Jordan found himself feeling awkward and out of place, then the moment was gone and Simon was pointing towards the entrance. 

“Is that press?” Simon asked. 

Turning, Jordan sighed out as the journalists entered the building as one, obviously snooping about for the story they knew was going to be there, “Yes, yes it is. Vultures, damn it. You aren't in cuffs, no one is going to be doing anything about you being here. Wards come in all the time to check in, walk the floor, all kinds of things.”

“Walk the floor? You let them do that?” Simon asked Jordan.

“Of course, wards make good officers of the law and the education you receive has been shown to be above that which normal children receive. If it weren't for the government wanting to show how well they care for those who die in service of the country, they'd probably see about raising all children themselves,” Jordan muttered in response. 

“No they wouldn't, there would be too many children, not enough control. Everything would fall apart and they know that,” Simon responded, “After all, the ward system is controlled by the Wards.”

“By those who were wards and-”

“No, there's a family, they were released by the government and adopted their childhood name for themselves and now have children of their own who are raised just as they were,” Simon responded, “they're good people, the Wards, and they run the whole system. With an outside auditor of course, all that fun stuff.”

“Oh, interesting. I didn't know that.”

“Most don't, most stay in their holes,” Simon responded, “I never imagined that you would be one to stay in your hole.”

“My... hole,” Jordan grumbled, leading the way to the front doors.

“It's what we're taught,” Simon responded, “that people stay in their holes and a hole is found in society that is the exact shape of them. But once people are there, they never want to look beyond the comfortable borders they've created for themselves. They never reach past that, learn past that. They see four walls and nothing more.”

“I learn,” Jordan protested, holding the door open for Simon. 

“In the old world,” Simon stressed, “people would be round pegs crammed into square holes. Except instead of reaching beyond their hole they'd sit there and whine and complain and produce negativity. Whereas you are in a hole shaped like you and enjoy being there, thus you produce positivity, if you produce an emotion.”

“But I learn,” Jordan protested, “I don't just sit in a hole.”

“Everyone sits in a hole,” Simon grumbled in response, “and that is what people say when they're stuck in a hole and they know it. No one will admit to being stuck in a hole.”

“I'm not in a hole!” 

“You eat the same thing every day, look at the same four walls, go to the same shows at the same time. The only things different about your life are your cars and even that's part of your hole,” Simon said as they approached Jordan's car, “you use it for a few weeks, you return it and then get a new one, probably like clockwork, what, three weeks driving one of these things, just to make certain there are no problems?”

“I'm not in a hole,” Jordan growled, unlocking the card and sliding into it. 

Simon slid into the seat beside Jordan, “How long do you keep the cars for?”

“Three weeks, shut up,” Jordan snapped, jamming the key into the ignition. 

“Are they always standard, what you drive?”

“And?” Jordan asked, hand sitting on the gearshift, “what, what's that say about me?”

“You like playing with sticks?” Simon offered. 

Jordan's face heated up, “my brothers drive both standard and automatic, I simply prefer the standards, they save on fuel and the like.”

“Why are you blushing?” Simon asked. 

“Nothing,” Jordan started the car, “do you drive?”

“No, walk everywhere. Cars are deathtraps, especially these older models,” Simon responded, buckling up only as Jordan pulled away from the curb.

“Shut it,” Jordan snarled back, “this is a perfectly safe vehicle that has run for hundreds of years. All he had to do was add a few fuel bits to make it accountable, you know, with the new legislation stuff and the gas and things.”

“What did this beast get in it's day, a mile to the gallon?” Simon snorted back. 

“Shut it...”

“You like saying shut it.”

“You like provoking me into saying it,” Jordan retorted. 

“Are you understanding why I'm labelled as a social withdrawal disorder?” Simon asked Jordan. 

“Very much so,” Jordan said quickly. 

“Most people start calling me names by this point,” Simon said quietly, focusing out the window. 

That made Jordan feel bad. He didn't like making people go quiet like that, unless it was a perp he had been pushing for answers. 

“It's. It's not that I find you to be absolutely annoying,” Jordan said. 

“Don't bother, we're in two different holes,” Simon responded, sounding hollow.

“Why do I get the feeling you're about to add, 'I expected better of you'?” Jordan asked. 

“I didn't say it,” Simon said defensively. 

“Why would you say something like that? I mean, not, it's not a bad thing, but of all things, why would you say that to me when we've never met before? Have we met before?” Jordan responded. 

“No, we've not met before,” Simon said quietly. 

“Okay, we've not met before but you keep making comments as if you know me very well, or at the very least think you do. To me, it makes very little sense. To an outside observer, I doubt it would make sense. Basically I'm just wondering why you would expect better of me?” Jordan asked, “is it the research you did when, you know...”

“You lit a building on fire and threw six people out of it?” Simon responded. 

“Yeah, was it your research?”

“No.” 

And that was all Simon offered on the topic. He offered no explanation as to why he thought that, only stating that it had not been the research. All Jordan could do was continue to guess, and he was not one to guess more than once. The rest of the ride was in silence. Pulling into the parking lot just outside the building, Jordan sighed in relief. He shut off the car and looked at Simon. 

“As an officer of the law who took you from your abode, I will now escort you back to your apartment,” Jordan said to Simon. 

“I know, it's your job,” Simon muttered. 

“I'll keep you updated on your file,” Jordan said. 

“Again, your job,” Simon said. 

“You're kind of being an asshole,” Jordan growled at Simon. 

“I've never heard that one before,” Simon said, sounding genuinely surprised. 

“I'm telling you that I'm going to do something kind for you, whether it's my job or not, it's basic courtesy to thank me or at the very least not snottily remind me that I'm the asshole because I'm only doing my job. I'm sorry, but they make my job above and beyond normal things and there's now nothing above and beyond my job,” Jordan said to Simon, “how could I possibly go above and beyond my hole to make you not snarl at me?”

“Dinner, coffee, something?”

Jordan thought about it for a moment, considered Simon and sighed out, “then, as the officer who took you in and questioned you, I would have to inform you that I'm gay.”

“Why would you have to inform me of that?”

“It's part of the sexual harassment code,” Jordan said, “if you're not under arrest, we can see each other beyond my escorting you back, whether as friends or something else but I need to tell you my preference in case I think it's a date and you think it's an outing and I make a move and then you file a harassment suit. I don't need one of those on my record, right beside a building fire.”

“Oh.” was all Simon said. Then he just sat there for what seemed like forever. 

“Simon...”

“I've never met a gay man before.” Simon said. 

“Well, it's not like we're a majority of the population.”

“No,” Simon growled and sighed at the same time, “we aren't.”


End file.
